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There was a lot of scowling as he went out the back door after making certain the front was secured, and when he went out for the second time, to get his last bag, he noticed a window screen lying on the left side of the house. He found where it went, put it back, and then came inside and told me what had taken him so long.

“I did wonder how he got in, it’s good to have the answer.”

“Why didn’t the alarm go off when he pulled the screen and opened the window?”

“I suspect I forgot to set the alarm when we left this morning,” I confessed. “You were a terrible distraction, and when I thought, did I or didn’t I, it occurred to me that the police were out front, so it hardly mattered.”

“But they didn’t stay all day.”

I grimaced. “I know, but I didn’t think of that until I came into the house and Wynton was here.”

He was scowling at me.

“It’s all your fault. If you weren’t so enthralling, there would be no issue.”

“I see.”

“Don’t sound so dismissive. It’s true.”

“Well, I’ll be in charge of the alarm system going forward.”

“I should give you the code, then. It’s two twenty-one and the letter B.”

After a moment he said, “Why?”

“That should be terribly obvious. I love Sherlock Holmes.”

I got a headshake in response, and then he left me alone in the kitchen so he could begin taking over half of my closet with his all-black wardrobe.

“Where do my coats go?” he yelled at me as I unloaded the dishwasher. I’d started it that morning on our way out.

“In the guest bedroom with mine,” I called back.

I lit a few beeswax candles—the natural honey scent was my favorite—turned on the fireplace, and made sure the house was warm and cozy again, feeling safe and content because he was there with me.

I took a quick shower while he was putting his shoes on the shelves in the closet and hanging up more of his clothes. I seriously needed to introduce gray or blue into his life.

Once I was out, I made sure I used all my skin care products quickly before changing into a pair of fitted sweats and a T-shirt, grabbed a button-up sweater and my slippers, and returned to the kitchen to check my phone for the progress of my order. Already, as suspected, it was en route.

I was on the couch when Deacon joined me, having showered himself, judging by his damp hair, in pajama bottoms, a T-shirt, and a thick shawl-collar sweater that I liked the look of. I also found his thick wool socks adorable.

“Why’re you smiling at me?” he asked, sitting down beside me.

“This sweater is a lovely mossy green. Wherever did it come from?”

“Gigi’s mom. She knits. It’s her love language, when she makes something for you.”

I kept smiling at him.

“What?”

“Nothing. Go on.”

“Well, because she thinks of me as one of her kids, when they got knitwear, it used to be, so did I.”

The “used to be” part nearly broke my heart.

“Why do you look all sad now?”